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Cranium Insanium Verse II

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“He is coming isn’t he?” I barely open my mouth and her words are spoken. “You shouldn’t be here Keeper.” I am in total agreement on that front. “He is searching for you Baby Sister.” I expect her face to alter, consternation to wash over it but it doesn’t occur. “He won’t find me.” She spouts her response with surprising nonchalance. “He cannot track me here, we stand in his earliest childhood memories.”

I feel great relief, although laced with dire trepidation. Since our communion I have felt a distinct feeling that he has access to my own imaginings and can feel him in my cranium, like a writhing serpent. Should that be true then he would be fully aware of where I stand. I’m like a walking tracking device which means we’re not at all safe, not by a long shot.

“Baby Sister, I must be gone.” I ignore the large percentage of me which desires to continue gawping at her sublime majesty and depart, back through the crawlspace from whence I came and this time take the direction of his dark heart. It is my only shot at finding my bloody brother.

If ever a journey was fraught with peril and unkind odds then it is this one, not only does it involve rappelling down Marcus’ esophagus, a dicey endeavor at the best of times, but it is a far more exposed meeting place. We shall have precious little time for idle chit-chat, Marcus will soon be alerted my trail if he isn’t already.

I can tell I am close as I can feel the rhythmic throbbing of the darkest of hearts reverberate around me. And I’m not kept waiting as brother Matt is already present, standing like a Roman statue before me. Once more, he is stripped of cloth and clad only in intricate painted designs. His mohawk represents his readiness for melee; it stands aloft akin to an unsheathed sword, preparing to do battle at any given moment.

Those baby blues sparkle like precious jewels and observe all around him with constancy. They glare with harsh intent, counter-balanced with dazzling beauty capable of moistening a quim with the most fleeting of glances. His encompassing face-canvas is like that of a seraph, angelic yet strong and masculine. His nobility is represented with his defined chin and this is merely the tip of this fiery iceberg.

Sub-aqua, as it were, it just goes loco; muscular and toned yet perfectly proportioned, he has the chest of a monarch. Pectorals, biceps and, lower down, abs all tell a tale; that being that no expense is spared in remaining battle-hardened, the masterful war paint furnishings attest to that.

It is my inclination never to voyage below the navel as that’s not really my scene, but my sisters of Grue would banish me to a Mongolian outpost if I cop out here so I make an exception just this once, albeit squinting. Jesus H. Christ! It’s a good job I squinted, that’s all I’m gonna say. This dude is well proportioned as I already mentioned, you must’ve gotten Keeper’s drift by now? Okay, okay. He is, not only hung, but drawn and fucking quartered to boot. An absolute beast, too burly to keep restrained, one envisages no muzzle with the capability of restraining this particular beast.

My eyes refocus on the massive task at hand (that’s task ladies, minds out the gutter) and I open my mouth to bear the bad news, although it’s not necessary. “He’s coming brother, I know.” He seems unusually unflustered, almost indifferent about events. His next retort takes me away from the false sense of security I’ve been lulled into and drags me kicking and screaming towards Def-Con 5. “There’s not a lot we can do now, the guy’s a titan.” That dreaded realization sets in that he has conceded defeat, the brutal reckoning from Marcus must’ve knocked the wind from his fine sails. Wrong again. “He’ll find us here but when he does he’s walking into a shitstorm.” Reassurance. Great. Now we’re fucking talking. Bring it Marcus! Of course, underneath that petulant bravado, I still feel a sickness that stretches down to the pit of my abdomen.